


Give of Yourself

by chervilspotatoes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe-Werewolves, Christmas, Declarations Of Love, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Shaving, Straight Razors, Trust, Unconditional Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 10:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5537336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chervilspotatoes/pseuds/chervilspotatoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh,” said John, sounding surprised.<br/>“Oh?” Sherlock inquired.<br/>“You have facial hair.”<br/>“Mrs. Hudson did not buy me a replacement blade for my razor. Therefore, I look like a caveman.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The world was gorgeous. Languid and slow, the way it is on ideal Christmas mornings. Too bad it was four days before Christmas. Sherlock saw John come down for breakfast, walking by in his usual short robe that revealed a triangle of his chest. Sherlock found the sounds of John making tea and eggs soothing, the snick of the refrigerator door, the crack of the shell and the wet plop of the egg into the pan, crack and plop, crack and plop. The hiss of running water, the click of the kettle. The kettle’s indignant screech, John’s careful thudding footsteps to the table.

“Oh,” said John, sounding surprised.

“Oh?” Sherlock inquired.

“You have facial hair.”

“A large proportion of postpubescent males do. I have not shaven for the past three days. It started becoming noticeable yesterday, but you weren’t home to notice.”

“Okay,” said John neutrally. 

“Mrs. Hudson did not buy me a replacement blade for my razor. Therefore, I look like a caveman.”

“Hardly a caveman. You have a fourth centimeter of growth. It looks, um, good.”

“In any case, I’m not about to use your electric monstrosity.”

“I…I have a straight razor. I hardly ever use it, but it was more practical to have one. In the army, you know. Didn’t need to replace it as often and such. It’s in good nick, if you want to use it.”

Sherlock was surprised. “I would, however, I have never used that particular blade.”

John’s offer was quick. “I could do you.” His eyes widened almost inperceptively. “I could shave you, if you felt more comfortable that way. If you wanted. If you wanted my blade. Or me to do it.” He clicked his mouth shut to stop his rambling.

Sherlock’s heart jumped. John was offering to be close to Sherlock. If Sherlock knew John would be so affronted by his facial hair he would offer to shave it off himself, he would have grown a full beard and mustache the first week they met.

“Yes, if you would. You know your blade best.”

John was elated. Sherlock would allow John to touch him! He could stroke those gorgeous cheekbones and defined chin, slather them with oil, watch as more and more perfect skin was uncovered…Jesus John was hard. He strategically hid his groin behind the table. Damn his short robe.

“Right then.” Sherlock stood and sauntered towards the bathroom. “Coming?”

John felt a wave of alarm. Didn’t he have time to change, to get his cock under control? On the other hand, John had no way of knowing when Mrs. Hudson would bring Sherlock his replacement blade. Or a guarantee that Sherlock would still allow his touch in five minutes’ time.

“Coming,” John answered. _Sooner than you know, Sherlock._ “Just got to get it from my room.” He went in his room and pulled his cock out, finishing into a tissue in record time. After quickly grabbing his razor, he went into the bathroom hoping Sherlock wouldn’t know he had just gotten off.

Sherlock was shirtless. John had somehow forgotten that being shirtless while shaving was a common thing many men did. John saw Sherlock’s small, flushed nipples pebble in the cold of the bathroom. “So, how do you want me?” Sherlock asked.

John was jerked from his thoughts. The poor man was standing shirtless and cold, about to let his best friend rub a deadly weapon all over his face and neck. The least John could do is make him comfortable.

“If you sit on the toilet seat and lean your head back on my stomach, I think I’ll be able to reach you.”

Sherlock did as instructed. As his head of bouncy curls pressed against John, John looked down at Sherlock’s neck, elongated and gorgeous before him. He found his eyes fixed to a tiny mole on the side of his neck.

John felt emboldened by the sight and decided to test Sherlock out. “I need to feel the area, so I know its contours. Is that okay?”

Sherlock swallowed. “Yes.”

So John tenderly placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s neck, covering the mole. He looked at Sherlock’s closed eyes, wondering at Sherlock. _How hard would he struggle if I started to strangle him? He didn’t struggle at all last time._ John didn’t have fond memories of that night. Far too many regrets. He had gone too far. He had pushed himself too far with Mary and allowed his rage and sorrow to push him too far with Sherlock. 

Sherlock was happy. John’s hands were so gentle on his neck. If John wanted to learn the area, he could learn the area. All areas. Whatever John wanted. It almost felt like John loved him. It was close enough to the real thing that Sherlock could pretend if he closed his eyes. He felt John’s hands move over his neck, over his chin. John’s finger accidentally brushed his lip once. After far too short a time, John’s hands retreated and Sherlock heard the sound of his shaving oil bottle being opened. As John’s hands spread the oil, the scent of mint and cedar spread over his face by John’s strong, capable hands, with John’s stomach cushioning his head, sent Sherlock into a state of deep relaxation.

John wouldn’t hurt him. Of that he had no doubt.

John picked up his blade, looking at Sherlock lying so relaxed. A smile covered his face as he looked at Sherlock’s closed eyes, his slightly parted lips, his eyelashes so thick and long on his skin, his neck so trustingly offered.

With as much care as first parents picked up their newborn, John drew a patch of skin on Sherlock’s cheek taut and flicked its short, dark hairs away. He felt his heart become fuller and fuller for the man leaning on him as he cared for Sherlock’s cheeks, then his chin, then the tender place above his lips. Sherlock’s neck was done, in no hurry and with infinite care. John was certain. Sherlock would never allow anyone to shave him as John had done if he did not love them. Sherlock hadn’t even hesitated. He had been sending out all green lights.

With an air of anticipation, John washed Sherlock’s freshly nude skin and put Sherlock’s mint and cedar soothing cream on, thinking of Sherlock’s lips and feeling giddily happy inside.

“Sherlock,” John began softly. “You’re all done. And I love you too. Can I kiss you now?”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he froze. He couldn’t allow John to love him when John didn’t know all of him. No one knew this of him, except Mycroft and his parents. But Sherlock had to let John know what he was so he could get over the monster that was Sherlock. He had no delusions. John would never love him once he knew, but he had to tell him.

John had stiffened when Sherlock froze and looked like a deer in the headlights for several minutes. His heart fell to his feet when Sherlock had failed to answer after five minutes. John started to move away from Sherlock, dejected and full of sorrow, when Sherlock’s hand snapped out of his lap and closed around John’s wrist. 

“Youre-you’re not wrong,” Sherlock gulped. “Time. Will you give me time?”

“Yeah, good. All right. Time. Take your time. All the time you need.”

The tender atmosphere evaporated, Sherlock simply felt exposed and cold and got up for his shirt. John took his cue to leave and slipped to his room. Sherlock put his head in his hands, shirt open. He would have to preserve every moment of John shaving him. Once John knew what he really was, he would never touch Sherlock again. Would never love him. It wasn’t until many hours later that he found dried tear tracks over the skin John had shaven.


	2. Chapter 2

It was sleeting outside. Perfectly miserable Christmas. But perfect for a funeral, for endings. Sherlock would have to end John’s love for him today. He felt hollow inside. John had been avoiding him for four days, probably part of giving him time, but Sherlock despaired. That one morning would be the last happy time with John. The ending had already begun when Sherlock sat on the toilet lid. Or maybe when Sherlock opened his big mouth and mentioned he lacked a blade. Or maybe when he met John. Or maybe the day he was born. Yes, no one could love a freakish monster like him. Doomed to be alone from birth.

Sherlock waited until night. The moon shone bright through the windows of the flat. There had been no gifts, no traditional Christmas celebrations this year. Sherlock had ruined that, ruined everything. 

Sherlock approached John’s door and quietly knocked. “John? Can we talk in the sitting room now?”

John opened the door, looking drawn and unhappy. “Yes.”

They sat in their chairs, feeling awkward and out of step. Sherlock began with a trembling voice, “John, I have to tell you. I’m not like other people.”

“And I would never push you into anything you don’t want. If you don’t want sex, or kissing, or any of it, it’s all okay. Whatever you want, it’s all fine.” John looked up earnestly, seeking forgiveness and assurance that Sherlock was okay, waiting for Sherlock’s command.

“I-I know that John. And I do want that but you can’t want that, not with me. John, I’m not…” Feeling frustrated with himself, he started a different tactic. “I had to wait until now because it is a full moon tonight. I wasn’t born a full human, John. If you want, I could show you my wolf form. If not, know that I would never harm you and you can of course find another flat.”

John was stunned. Werewolves? They were real? But if anyone was a werewolf, it would have to be someone extraordinary like Sherlock. “Yes. Show me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scurried into his room and closed the door. He dropped his clothes on a chair and curled in a ball on the floor. A tear fell from his eye and ran down his shifting nose until it dripped off his snout. Sherlock felt forlorn and apologetic, near tears in this form too, but these eyes would not cry. Instead his tail tucked itself between his legs, head bowed, unwilling to watch as John fell out of love with him, as John walked out the door for the last time, as he was deservedly struck and kicked.

John watched as a huge black wolf emerged from Sherlock’s room. John felt his heart wrench. The wolf’s shiny fur adorned the saddest creature John had ever seen. John stood and walked with his hand out to soothe Sherlock, for Sherlock the wolf was, through and through, when the wolf gave a low, pitiful whine and dropped his shoulders to the floor.

Sherlock’s head was pressed into the floor, the back of his neck entirely exposed. His spine was in one long, vulnerable curve, tail twitching minutely from side to side. John was horrified. Sherlock should never look like that, like no matter how he apologized, whatever he did, would never be enough. Ready to accept John’s judgment, whatever it was, laying himself out like an object, feeling like his world was ending. So Sherlock was more unique than John knew before. That was okay.

John knelt by Sherlock’s head. “Sherlock. It’s okay. You’re beautiful. I’m not afraid. I love you more than ever, my beautiful genius.”

Sherlock slowly raised his head and blinked at John. John’s breath caught. Sherlock’s eyes were still swirling grey and green, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Sherlock was gorgeous, so gorgeous.

“If I get you a blanket, can you shift back?” Sherlock’s head moved in an approximation of a nod. After draping a blanket over Sherlock, John watched as the fur sank into Sherlock’s skin, watching his eyes, unmoving and unchanging. When a naked human Sherlock was under the blanket, John smiled.

“I love you, John. I never dreamed…”

“Can I kiss you now?”

“Yes.”

John moved his face towards his werewolf’s, and his werewolf closed his eyes and leaned up toward John. Their lips brushed, chaste and light as a whisper, before the pressure deepened. Their lips broke apart just long enough to breathe before meeting again, all soft and sweet. The entire world was their kiss, on Christmas night. 

Sherlock smiled when he considered they had given each other key gifts indeed—Sherlock of himself, and John of his answering, unconditional love.


End file.
